


The Writer and the Detective

by empress_of_snark



Category: Zoo (TV)
Genre: AKA another detective AU, Castle AU, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Jamie is a famous writer, Max is a struggling stage actor, Mitch is a homicide detective, Pre-Relationship, murders based on books, not a full case fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:00:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25488136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empress_of_snark/pseuds/empress_of_snark
Summary: Jamie Campbell is a successful murder mystery author living in New York. Having just killed off her main character, she’s on the hunt for a new muse. The perfect research opportunity falls into her lap when a string of murders closely resembling her books lands her in the interrogation room of one Detective Mitch Morgan, NYPD.
Relationships: Jamie Campbell/Mitch Morgan
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	The Writer and the Detective

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote about 99% of this back in 2017 and when the show got cancelled, I abandoned it but didn't delete it. I recently found it again in my "WIP" folder and decided to polish it up a bit before posting it, if only so I can now move it over to my "Finished" folder!  
> For context, this is not a full-length case fic. It's more like my other detective AU, kind of a set up to a larger story that I'm not actually going to write. Don't ask me why I've written two different detective AU's for the same fandom. I didn't realize the obvious potential of a Castle AU until after I'd posted the first story already, lol.

_Jamie_

In about five minutes, Jamie was officially going to be _very_ late to a meeting with her editor where he was going to ask her (not for the first time) when she was going to get started on her next book. She’d give the same answer she’d been giving him for the past two months: “When my inspiration strikes.” It was the kind of answer editors hated, particularly when they also happened to be ex-boyfriends.

So it wasn’t like there was any great tragedy to her being late, seeing as how she already knew what was going to happen, but it was an excuse she could use to leave quickly.

The inside of the NYPD interrogation room was nicer than she would’ve pictured. On TV, they always seemed so dirty and dimly lit. But the writer in her noted with some pleasant surprise that the floors looked recently mopped and the two-way mirror was free of smudges.

Speaking of which, there was almost definitely someone watching her. Probably that surly Detective Mitch Morgan who had hauled her in almost a half hour ago. Didn’t he know it was rude to keep a lady waiting?

If he wanted an admission of guilt, he wasn’t going to see one. Jamie kept her poker face. In fact, she was just wondering if using the mirror to fix her makeup would look _too_ blasé when the door finally opened.

Speak of the devil, there he was.

Her first impression of the man hadn’t been an altogether flattering one. Interrupting a world-famous author in the middle of her book signing was the quickest way to land on her bad side. He hadn’t even waited in line—just a quick flash of his badge and he got to cut right to the front.

Jamie had never really got along with authoritative men. They always seemed to be compensating for something or other.

She didn’t say anything, but made a point to glance at her watch as he entered the room.

“Yeah, sorry about the wait,” he offered insincerely, shuffling through the papers in his hands. “Busy morning.”

“Made a lot of false arrests, then?”

Detective Morgan sat down across from her, smirking a bit, and for the first time, Jamie got a good look at him. Handsome, in a rugged-yet-nerdy kind of way. He had at least eight, maybe ten years on her, with dark, unruly hair and wire-rimmed glasses. His brown eyes regarded her with authority and a touch of suspicion. Finally—an interesting (though probably insignificant) detail—he was the only male detective she’d seen today that wasn’t wearing a tie.

“You haven’t been arrested, Miss Campbell,” he said, “just brought in for questioning. In case you didn’t notice, you’re not handcuffed and we didn’t read you your rights. You can leave whenever you want.”

“Good to know.”

“You know why we called you in?” he asked.

Jamie shrugged. “Not exactly. You mentioned something about a murder?”

“Does the name Evan Lee Hartley mean anything to you?”

She shifted through the address book in her mind before shaking her head. “No, but I meet a lot of people on a day-to-day basis. I’m guessing he’s dead?”

The detective gave her a flat smile. “As a doornail. Would you mind telling me where you were Saturday night?”

Jamie crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair. “Would you mind telling me why I’m a suspect?”

“Answer the question.”

For a moment, they stared, sizing each other up, before Jamie gave in and complied. “I was at a book release party ‘til a little after midnight.”

He wrote this down and seemed to signal someone behind the mirror. “Your own book?”

“As a matter of fact, it was,” she said. “And before you ask, yes, many people can vouch for my whereabouts the whole night, including my editor. He’s actually been expecting me at his office for a while now, so—”

“This isn’t your first run-in with the law, is it, Miss Campbell?”

Jamie sat back in her seat. She wasn’t used to people interrupting her. Maintaining her composure, she replied simply, “No, it’s not.”

Detective Morgan was glancing through the pages in front of him—her file, apparently. “Couple of cases of domestic disturbance back in 2015…”

She smirked. “Bad relationship. It’s since been amended.”

Boiling the whole Ben debacle down to ‘bad relationship’ may have been simplifying things. Truthfully, he was an abusive asshole. All of the calls the neighbors made were due to _his_ shouting, not hers. She was just glad she wised up and kicked him to the curb.

“And, early 2016,” he continued, “we have two accounts of drunk and disorderly behavior, followed by one of resisting arrest. Care to explain those?”

“The aftermath of said relationship,” she said, growing impatient. “It was a bad year for me.”

He flipped the file closed and looked at her. “Incredibly, all the charges were dropped. Seems you have some fans in high places.”

“Mayor Delavenne and I go way back,” she said with a sickly sweet smile. “Now, if I ask you again why I’m a murder suspect, will I get an answer?”

Another long pause and another long stare-down. This time, he was the one who broke it, bringing another sheaf of papers out of his pile and sliding a photo across the table to her. She found herself face-to-face with a dead body, arranged in a very specific way. The arms were outstretched, palms turned up, and (the most chilling and telling detail), his eyes were missing.

“Oh my god,” Jamie muttered.

Unfazed, the detective watched her carefully. “Look familiar?”

“ _Eye of the Beholder_ ,” she said, brow furrowed. “Geez, they couldn’t have picked from one of my better books?”

He almost looked like he smiled. “I’ll be sure to let the killer know how disappointed you are. This is the third in a string of murders that seem to have been inspired by your work.”

“And you think I did this?”

“Until your alibi is cleared, you’re certainly a suspect,” he said with a shrug. “But it’s also possible that one of your readers may be trying to get your attention. Have you received any disturbing fan mail recently?”

Jamie scoffed. “Detective, I’m an attractive woman in the public eye. Practically all of my fan mail is disturbing.”

“We’re gonna need to see any recent letters you’ve received within the past couple of months.”

She sat back, finally forcing herself to look away from the photo. “Then you’re in luck. I usually throw out the really creepy ones, but with my new book coming out, I’ve been busy. I haven’t gotten around to sorting through the latest batch. I can bring them by tomorrow.”

“Then you’re free to go for now. Don’t leave the city.”

\---

_Mitch_

As soon as Mitch opened the door to the apartment, Clementine came storming into view, phone in hand, face contorted into a look of shock and confusion. As always, their golden retriever, Henry, followed right on her heels. She didn’t give him time to say anything before she started talking.

“Dad, did you seriously arrest Jamie Campbell today?” she demanded, brandishing an online article from a (somewhat unreliable) gossip website in his face. “Like, _the_ Jamie Campbell? The author?”

“Hello to you, too, Clem,” he retorted tiredly, hanging up his jacket by the door, and giving Henry a head scratch. “Work was fine, thanks for asking.”

Clementine huffed as she followed him into the kitchen. “Hi, Dad. How was work? Now, are you gonna answer my first question or not? This site says she was taken into police custody this afternoon by one Detective Morgan!”

Opening the fridge, he asked, “Did they spell my name right this time?”

“Dad!” He could practically _hear_ her rolling her eyes.

“All right, all right, calm down.” Mitch closed the fridge with a popsicle in hand, which Clementine promptly replaced with an apple from the counter. He frowned at her, but didn’t argue. “I didn’t _arrest_ her, I just took her down to the precinct for a little chat. Lasted twenty minutes, then she was free to go.”

Clementine hopped up onto the kitchen counter, still looking angry despite the icy treat in her hand. “She was in the middle of a book signing!”

“Yes,” he said, “and she was also wanted for questioning about a string of murders that took place this past week.” At his daughter’s shocked look, he grimaced. “Don’t… don’t repeat that, you know I’m not supposed to tell you things like that. Forget I said it.”

“My lips are sealed,” she said, diving into her popsicle. “So, did you get to talk to her? What was she like?”

He gave a dismissive shrug. “Like every other author I’ve arrested.”

“Which is…?”

“Arrogant, but well-spoken.”

Ms. Campbell hadn’t been the first celebrity in his interrogation room, although she was one of the first ones he recognized himself. He wasn’t exactly up-to-date on pop culture, and regularly had to deal with Jackson or Dariela’s shocked gasps of “You seriously don’t know who that is?”

But Jamie Campbell he knew. After all, he was the one who identified the crime scene as a recreation from her book. Apparently he was the only detective at the NYPD who read books anymore.

Not that he was a fan of _hers_ , per se. Just of the genre.

“I heard this new book’s a real shocker,” his daughter continued. “There’s a rumor that she killed off her main character, Kate Summers.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

He did know, actually. And she had. He may have pre-ordered the book months ago. But that wasn’t something he was willing to admit, nor the fact that he’d been devastated to read the fictional detective’s death scene. He had an image to maintain, after all.

Before Clementine could say anything else, the front door opened again and the third member of the Morgan family appeared, on his way to the living room.

“I’m back!” he announced with a bitter smile.

Clem dismounted from the counter to follow him. “How’d the audition go, grandpa?”

Max gave a dramatic sigh that had his son rolling his eyes.

“Less than ideal,” he said, scoffing. “I was told that I’m not exactly what they’re ‘looking for’ in their version of Lear. As if I haven’t already played the role three times before!”

Wandering into the living room after them, Mitch asked, “What kind of a version are they doing where they don’t need a crazy old man?”

“Very funny,” Max replied, mock-glaring. “They’re going for a different take. Some kind of sci-fi rewrite.”

Clem wrinkled her nose. “King Lear in Space? Sounds awful.”

“I’m sure it will be,” he said. “That’s why I intend to be there opening night.”

Clementine laughed. “Hey, did you hear about Dad’s celebrity arrest?”

Mitch groaned and slumped onto the couch. “I didn’t arrest her, it was only a questioning.”

Always one for gossip, especially involving the rich and famous, Max perked up. “Celebrity? Who on earth was it? Sutton Foster? Yoko Ono?”

“Jamie Campbell, the mystery author!”

Max’s smile widened as he looked at his son knowingly. “Oh indeed? Isn’t she one of your favorite writers, Mitch?”

“I regret ever letting you move in here.”

Not entirely true—he hadn’t had to pay for babysitting in years. But it was days like this that he was a little nostalgic for when it had just been him and Clementine. And those few times that Max had to rehearse musical numbers at all hours and Mitch developed a tic anytime someone hummed even a few notes of Sondheim.

“Anyway,” he said, standing up and heading for the master bedroom, “You know I can’t give you any details, so don’t even ask.”

As he walked away, he selectively tuned out the sound of Clementine telling her grandfather all about the grisly murder. They knew an empty threat when they heard one.

\---

_Jamie_

Really though, _Eye of the Beholder_? Written during her explosive relationship with Ben, it was easily her worst book, panned by critics and fans alike. The plot was weak, the twists predictable, and the characters read like cardboard cutouts. She was only lucky her fans were so forgiving when the next book came out. Hadn’t this murderer read _Hell Hath No Fury_? If there was ever a book to base a murder on, that was the one.

Jamie closed her eyes and leaned back against her front door with a grimace. Was she really getting offended that a murderer had bad taste in her books?

She shook off that self-centered line of thought and picked up the letter box by the door, full to the brim with what she could only assume was fan mail, bills, and late Christmas cards. She got a headache just thinking about having to sort through it all and decided to leave it by the door to take to the precinct on her next trip out.

The penthouse apartment was quiet, save for the low rumblings of New York city traffic floating up to her windows. A symphony of car horns and squealing brakes. When she first moved from her small Louisiana hometown, the noise had been obnoxious and unfamiliar. Now, it was the sound of home.

As she dropped her purse by the door, she recalled the meeting with Ethan—the one she’d been forty-five minutes late for. He hadn’t been quite as understanding as she’d hoped, given that the reason she was late was due to being in police custody.

_“Now that the Kate Summers series is over, you need to start thinking about the next book.”_

_She’d resisted the urge to groan aloud, and tried to stay professional. “I will, as soon as my—”_

_“—inspiration strikes, yeah, I know.” He’d sighed, crossing his arms. “Look, you’ve gotta give me something, all right? And we want a male detective this time.”_

_“Excuse me?”_

_To his credit, Ethan had the good sense to look annoyed at what he was saying. “There are people who seem to think of your books as ‘women’s lit’ because the main characters are always women. In the past, we’ve used that to our advantage and played up the feminist angle, but if you’d write a male protagonist every once in a while, we may be able to expand your target audience.”_

Jamie had conceded, but not before making a lengthy argument as to why readers who didn't like the idea of female detectives weren't readers she wanted. At least she had something to start with now: a male detective. As if there weren’t enough books about them already.

Maybe she’d put a new spin on it. For example, a slightly older, more bookish-looking type, rather than the young, macho man that was typical nowadays. The kind of guy who looked more like he should be playing a scientist in a sci-fi B-movie. That'd be a deviation from the norm.

She grinned, putting the thought away for now.

Crossing to the overflowing built-in bookshelves of the living room, she called to mind the other two books of hers Detective Morgan had mentioned as being connected to the murders.

 _A Rumor of Crows_ and _Death on a Plane_.

Maybe there was something in those books, some clue as to what the killer was doing. She pulled one of the first editions off the shelf and started turning its pages, stifling the morbid thrill in her stomach. Three people were dead, she reminded herself, and it wasn’t at all appropriate to be excited about the chance to help catch a murderer.

But she had a feeling this would be fun.

**Author's Note:**

> Please review my three-year-old fanfiction for a dead fandom and let me know what you think!


End file.
